


The Couch Scene (Cas POV)

by TempestBlessed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse (Supernatural), Fanwork of Fanwork, Inspired by Down to Agincourt Series - seperis, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:35:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28368516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TempestBlessed/pseuds/TempestBlessed
Summary: From an Anon prompt on Tumblr: ALL I REALLY WANT OUT OF LIFE IS A CAS!POV VERSION OF THE COUCH SCENESpoilers for fanwork Down to Agincourt: A Thousand Lights in Space (book 3) by seperis.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 23
Kudos: 99
Collections: Down to Agincourt Fanworks





	The Couch Scene (Cas POV)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seperis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Thousand Lights in Space](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2664854) by [seperis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis). 



It is with no small amount of chagrin that Castiel finds himself bringing the evening’s festivities to a close, gathering up bottles and glasses alike in deference to the increased risk of hypothermia intoxication causes in humans combined with the less-than-ideally-heated cabin. Of course, he is not subject to the same peril and determines that for the good of all it would be best if he finish off the last of it -- to ensure no one else consumes it and puts themselves in jeopardy, of course.

He leaves the glasses by the sink to be tomorrow’s problem (ideally Dean’s as Castiel has clearly gone above and beyond in being the responsible one) and turns back to the living room. Joseph and Amanda are asleep (passed out) on the mattress; time was, he’d be right there with them (not asleep, but still) and at least ten percent of the camp is a blissed out mass of bodies. But that was then. And now, laughter breaks through the silence and he shifts his gaze to where Dean -- or really just Dean’s face, as the rest of him seems to have merged with the blankets -- is clearly experiencing some sort of alcohol-induced delirium.

“How the might have fallen,” he gloats. Castiel wishes he had a camera on hand so he could show the pot (kettle? whatever) what he looked like. “Get the lights, would you?”

Castiel considers throwing the nearest available object at Dean to wipe the smirk off his face -- it’s a glass bottle, however, and likely to cause extensive damage; personal aggravation to be incurred during the recovery process likely not worth the momentary satisfaction, and ultimately he prefers Dean’s face when it is not covered with cuts and bruises -- and suppresses a sigh before stepping across the mattress and turning off the lights as requested. Menial labor completed for the pleasure of his incredibly formidable and not at all annoying-slash-adorable leader, he turns to go to the couch.

Dean is on the couch. He knew that already. And it’s not that he personally considers that to be a problem, but with the limited real estate… Castiel pauses and looks at Joseph and Amanda on the mattress again, eyes narrowing. There is just enough room for a third person, but although he has done away with his practice of not sharing a bed with others for sleep purposes and has found doing so with Dean quite pleasant, he finds himself reluctant to do the same with others. Plus, Amanda is snoring and he thinks he can see a bit of drool on Joseph’s pillow.

“Dude,” Dean whispers loudly, slapping at the back of the couch with an impressive lack of accuracy. “Come here. I’m not kicking you off the couch.”

“I’m not sure there’s enough room,” he prevaricates. From the mattress comes a sound not unlike a thump, and Joseph makes a pained noise, which makes them both wince. Castiel hastily revises his assessment -- not enough room for a third person on the mattress without risk of serious injury (who knew Amanda was as dangerous in sleep as on the training field?) -- and makes his way to the couch, resigning himself to the battle against biology that is no doubt about to take place, even with the depressant effect of alcohol (should’ve brought another bottle out). Perhaps Dean will fall asleep quickly. “We can make room.”

Apparently Dean took that ‘we’ in the royal sense as, aside from moving his feet out of the way in self-preservation when Castiel sits down, he shows no inclination of helping to actually make room. Not only that, neither is he sharing the blankets although there are certainly enough of those for two people. Castiel tugs at them -- what, has Dean sewn himself shut inside of them? -- and may put a little more force than necessary into a leveraging foot against Dean’s thigh as he wrestles an edge loose.

“Cas,” Dean complains, voice low. “You’re supposed to be fucking me,” (because of course Dean would bring that up when there’s not nearly enough room on the couch for both two people and discretion), “What, now you get weird about touching me?”

Ah yes, because touching is so innocent, he almost laughs in despair. Abdomen -- tracing a fine trail of hair downwards, nipping the soft skin near a hipbone; ankles -- perhaps not the source of so much scandal as he has been told Victorian-era individuals considered them, but if nothing else a suitable place to attach restraints; an--

Castiel shoves Dean over, dragging his thoughts back to the real issue at hand, but has once again misjudged his use of force (unintentionally this time). He (almost successfully) holds back a grunt of pain when Dean’s foot meets his knee as the hunter flails for balance in the tangle of blankets; he moves his hand from Dean’s hip to the edge of the couch, catching Dean before he can fall as Castiel lands on his side between him and the back of the couch.

Just as the position he has put himself in starts to sink in (he does not, does not, resume his inventory of body part touching and especially does not pick up where he left off), Dean shifts and rolls onto his back. Relief is short-lived however as Castiel realizes this does, in fact, mean they are pressed more firmly together due to Dean now taking up more room on the couch.

But then Dean’s face turns towards him and Castiel watches as his expression shifts from what was surely going to be a snarky remark about his lack of coordination (as if he was in any real danger of falling off the couch) to… something else. Something new and unexpected.

Though it’s nearly pitch-black and surely Dean can’t make out much more than vague outlines, Castiel can see every detail of his face -- green eyes roving, trying to find his own (with his vision reduced by darkness, they are the deep green of jungle depths as yet unseen by man); a heavy bob of his throat as he swallows (Castiel tries not to linger on that too long); lips parting ever so slightly (there’s really no safe place to look); alcohol-flushed cheeks darkening further (is this Heaven or Hell and does he care either way?). Puzzlement gives way to realization.

“You’re curious,” he murmurs before he can think better of it. He sees Dean look away, hears the absence of a breath, and for a moment is certain he will deny it. But then he answers.

“Maybe.”

Perhaps Castiel is the one experiencing alcohol-induced delirium (did he take any drugs earlier and forget about them?). Blinking down at Dean, he again takes in the pink glow on his skin and inviting part of his lips. Not a delusion. A possibility.

“Let’s find out.” He makes himself go slowly, watching every microexpression that flits across Dean’s face as he brings his hand up from the edge of the couch to trace down his cheek, thumb trailing through the stubble along his jaw. He leans closer, mere inches away, and it is a struggle to keep his voice steady. “How curious, Dean?”

Pressing gently against Dean’s cheek, his face turns toward him with willing ease. He is beautiful, and it would be enough to simply behold him as the hours passed by until dawn, as he has done many nights before. But that is only enough, as opposed to being able to indulge in the many pleasures that mortal flesh is heir to, and Castiel has never been one to deny himself the latter when it is freely offered and certainly not in so appealing a form. If Dean desires to explore this, it would be a mortal sin to refuse him. Castiel tilts his head, giving into temptation and the barest brush of lips to see how Dean responds.

Dean’s eyes flutter shut and remain so for several long seconds after Castiel slowly draws back, smiling. “Well?”

Then a frown seems to settle across Dean’s eyes and he tenses against Castiel. Uncertainty followed quickly by anxiety cuts through the warmth suffusing him.

“Dean?” He tries to find something in Dean’s expression to explain the sudden change. The ‘maybe’ wasn’t a ‘yes’ of course, but it and the reactions following it had seemed to convey a willingness to continue at least this far, but perhaps his understanding of the intricacies of human behavior were inadequate for this specific scenario. He shifts uncomfortably, trying to figure out how he might create more space between them on the suddenly much too small couch. “Dean, I—“

“Sorry,” Dean interrupts, sounding discordantly at ease. “So that was it?”

Castiel blinks and repeats the words in his head a few times to try and get their measure, then plays them against Dean’s reaction following the kiss. Deans lips curve into an irritating smirk.

“Got anything else or can I get some sleep?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow as the pieces click into place and he understands, annoyance and affection and relief warring within him. For why would Dean ever let anything in his life be easy? Truly he should have been concerned if he had acted any other way and ought to have planned for this very eventuality, even if he’d never had any expectation it would come to pass. Having not done so and being distracted by the beautiful, obnoxious face in front of him, he finds himself at a loss for words. In lieu of a snarky response, he thinks he really should make Dean follow through on his threat to go to sleep.

He especially should do so when Dean’s smirk widens as he leans closer despite himself, but Castiel decides he doesn’t care. Where the first kiss was cautious, the second is teasing and Castiel adds just enough pressure to hint at the promise of more before pulling back, gazing upon Dean’s face.

Dean’s eyes open slowly, filled with dazed wonder, whatever additional witty comments he’d doubtless been ready to say forgotten. He takes in a halting breath as Castiel traces a thumb along his lower lip.

“Better,” murmurs Castiel, slipping the tip of his thumb between Dean’s lips, captivated by the wet heat within. “Much better.” His eyes remain fixed on Dean’s mouth, considering. Desire courses through his veins at the sight of Dean willing and waiting before him, and he does owe him some amount of mischief if nothing else. Pulling away, Castiel eases up on an elbow to look down upon him. “Don’t move.”

Castiel shoves the twisted mess of blankets down the couch, never breaking eye contact with Dean. Bracing his right hand on the arm of the couch above Dean’s head, he slides a knee between Dean’s legs and shifts into a lazy stretch above him, taking a moment to enjoy having Dean beneath him before sliding his free hand behind Dean’s back and sitting back on his heels so Dean is straddling his lap. He just stops himself from bucking up into Dean’s hips -- for now, patience is a virtue after all, or so he has been assured -- and smiles up at him, pleased with himself, as Dean grabs his shoulder for balance. Castiel slides own hands slowly down Dean’s back until they rest on his hips, holding him firmly in place as Dean stares hungrily into his eyes. Castiel feels his own eyes darken and it is no small effort to keep his voice casual.

“I have no objection to touching you. It would be far easier, however, if you were wearing less.”

Dean seems hardly to have heard him, and while at another time Castiel might savor having him so enthralled, he’s beginning to question the subject matter knowledge of the presumed virtue experts. He tightens his grip on Dean’s hips and Dean finally nods. “Yeah.”

“Good.” Interpreting Dean’s lack of action to mean he requires additional prompting, Castiel takes hold of his wrists and guides them to rest against Dean’s thighs. “Take them off for me.”

Castiel watches Dean fumble at the hem of his sweatshirt with shy enthusiasm, struggling to remove it. When it tangles around his face, Castiel bites his lip, resisting the urge to intervene and take care of the offending item himself.

“Give it to me,” he commands when Dean finally frees himself of it, face flushed deep crimson. Not bothering to wait, he takes the sweatshirt from where it’s tangled around Dean’s hands and drops it on the floor without a second glance, saving his attention for the man before him who somehow blushes even redder when Castiel glances meaningfully at his hands (fisted against his thighs, notably not removing more clothing). As Dean starts to reach for the ragged edge of his thermal, Castiel relives the recent eternity that was the removal of the sweatshirt and makes an executive decision, easing Dean’s hands back down with a shake of his head. “I want to do it.”

Enjoying how Dean’s eyes widen incrementally, Castiel hooks his fingers under the hem of his shirt and slide it effortlessly over his head, discarding it upon the floor. Finally only one shirt remains, though it may as well be one hundred for all that it still conceals what he wants. Dean’s gaze is averted, as though he thinks he could look anything less than perfect in Castiel’s eyes. Castiel couldn’t bear if Dean lost his nerve on so baseless an assumption.

“Look at me,” he whispers. Dean’s eyes meet his for only a moment but what he sees there must reassure him because then they’re dropping to his lips, Dean is leaning forward, and that last cursed shirt can wait.

The first touch is feather-light and Castiel hums with pleasure; then the kiss deepens and he curves a hand around the back of Dean’s neck, tilting his head to pull him in further. He licks across Dean’s lower lip and takes it between his teeth, tugging on it gently, testing the waters before sliding his tongue just inside as Dean’s hand closes over his shoulder. The hand doesn’t push, doesn’t pull. Castiel’s mind absently wonders if this will be the place where Dean draws the line; he nips and licks at Dean’s lips languidly, hopeful, petitioning for entry.

It’s granted. Dean’s hand comes up to curl fingers in Castiel’s hair, pulling him closer as he licks into Dean’s mouth eagerly. Dean sucks on his tongue, drawing out a moan; Castiel raises a hand to Dean’s cheek again, stroking his thumb over it and deepening the kiss, forgetting about hypothetical lines as he shifts his hands to Dean’s back and lays him down again, swallowing a breathless laugh that escapes his lips. Last lingering doubts about how far Dean’s curiosity goes are erased by the tangle of fingers in hair, a continuing kiss, and the scrape of fingernails along the bare skin of his back beneath his sweaters -- and that last catches him blissfully off-guard, drawing a growl from his lips as he arches into the touch.

Castiel pulls back, intending to regain some measure of control, but upon seeing Dean’s face he realizes he never had any hope of that. He is enraptured, ensnared, and it is such sweet confinement.

A foot drags along the back of his calf, breaking his reverie, but just as he feels he may be regaining his wits he feels a leg wrap around his thigh, pulling his hips closer until that which so recently he’d been concerned about concealing is pressed, hard, against Dean’s thigh.

At Dean’s sharp intake of breath, Castiel trails a hand from Dean’s hip to his knee, shifting him and settling between his legs against his half-hard cock. It’s somehow even more stimulating than the pressure on his own and Castiel leans forward to bury his resulting groan with Dean’s in each other’s mouths. Nothing has ever tasted so sweet; he wonders what other sounds Dean can make.

Breaking their kiss with a bite to Dean’s lip, he threads his fingers through Dean’s hair and maps the length of his jaw with his mouth, cataloging each breath he takes. A sharp intake as he reaches soft skin below his ear goes straight to his groin and Castiel tightens his grip triumphantly, tipping Dean’s head to bite a claiming mark, encouraged by the breathless sounds it brings forth. With a final lick, he resumes his exploration, tracing Dean’s artery down his neck with tongue and teeth to where throat meets shoulder -- and the almost-forgotten t-shirt. When the fabric fails to dissolve into ash, he noses the loose collar out of the way to suck a kiss into delicate skin atop firm muscle, savoring the faint hint of sweat and barely constrained lurch of Dean’s hips against his.

“Cas.” Barely audible; but he thinks if he could still hear prayers his mind would hold a cacophony. He will answer anyways. “Cas—“

“Shh.” He presses his tongue against the hard, fast beat of Dean’s pulse, feels it beat faster still as he slowly closes his teeth around it, bruising but not breaking skin. He pulls back just far enough to look in satisfaction upon his work, tracing the faint outline with his tongue as Dean shudders beneath him. It could use more color, and he leans back in to suck a slow, endless kiss into the hot skin, pulse fluttering against his lips. Mine.

Eventually, reluctantly, he pulls back again, skimming his thumb along the edge of the now vivid mark. He can’t resist another lick and revels in the strangled noise that breaks through Dean’s panting when he places it, but lets Dean drag him back up after, if only for a moment so he can plan his next move. That t-shirt really has to go.

A hand shoves against his chest, holding him back, but his protest fades away as another hand grasps at the hem of his own shirts, pulling sweatshirt and thermal off in one go with significantly more confidence (though only slightly more grace) than Dean managed with his first, leaving blessedly bare skin in their wake. Dean throws the clothes across the room with what would most accurately be described as justifiably extreme prejudice. Castiel can’t help but laugh, but is quickly silenced by a dull tug against his scalp and Dean’s lips teasing at the edges of his and yes, more of that would be good. He follows Dean back down against the couch, settling his weight against him in a long line of how-are-they-still-wearing-any-clothes as his tongue demands entry, enthusiastically given, to Dean’s mouth. Castiel shifts his hips against Dean’s, luxuriating in the hot press of Dean’s cock against his, even through six (six?!) layers of fabric.

Fingers brush against the waist of his sweatpants and Castiel hopes Dean will be as efficient in their removal as he was with his shirts when movement to his left distracts him. He feels Dean freeze and follow his gaze as he looks for its source, focusing on a mound of clothing on top of the coffee table with narrowed eyes. He glances at the mattress farther off and the two forms huddled upon it, still as if in deep sleep but… their breathing, nearly silent, is too quiet, too measured, and while he is still somewhat new to the intricacies of sleep he is fairly certain that shirt-throwing is not normally a part of it.

He considers ignoring them. They’re still drunk, they’ll probably fall back asleep soon anyways; and it’s not as if they can’t leave, they don’t even have to pass by the couch on their way to the door. Castiel could help them, even, it wouldn’t take long and they could keep the mattress and blankets (it’s not like it’s that much colder outside than in).

But it would be a shame if they got hypothermia after the effort he’d made to avoid such an eventuality and would likely be bad for camp morale. Better to leave them where they are then, except… he finds himself reluctant to share this moment, whether they appreciate it or not (and it would seemingly be the latter). Plus, Amanda might kill him after. And for all Dean took no issue with letting everyone think they’ve been fucking for weeks, it seems less likely he would be comfortable with providing a demonstration of the same.

Resigned, he returns his gaze to Dean’s face, not certain what he’ll find. And he’s not certain what he does find, but it’s not panic or horror (though neither, alas, is it something that says let’s-throw-our-pants-at-them-too –- he would have been willing to risk Amanda’s wrath).

“We should…” Castiel trails off, falling into the distraction of their bodies still pressed together, still hard and hot despite the interruption. What should they do again? What does one even say when one needs to schedule a raincheck with a not-so-heterosexual-after-all man due to being surrounded by rude drunk people who, if they are going to pretend to be asleep, could at least have the common decency to be good at it? “Is this awkward?”

Dean’s face contorts beneath him and Castiel experiences a moment of concern, unsure what this reaction is -- is that laughter?

“Are you—“

Before he can finish his sentence, much less the thought meant to shape it, he’s being pulled down again, Dean’s face pressing against the bare skin of his shoulder and yes, he’s laughing, and as the ridiculousness of the situation sinks in Castiel can’t help but do them same, collapsing on top of him and burying his face against Dean’s neck to muffle the sound as he feels Dean laugh even harder. It’s not sex, but it feels good just to lay together like this, too, in a different sort of shared intimacy.

Slowly, the laughter subsides after several breathy aftershocks course through Dean and transition to small shivers. The contrast between Dean’s hands on his back and the cold air is stark, but Castiel can’t bring himself to care. What he does care about very much, now that the mystery of the flying fabric is solved, is that Dean still has on that annoying t-shirt, thin cotton mocking him as it separates their skin. It is very thin… he wonders if Dean might not even notice the difference if it were gone.

“Get the blankets,” Dean murmurs into Castiel’s hair. He considers pretending he didn’t hear him. “We’re gonna freeze to death, and fuck being found dead like this.”

Out of all of the possible ways one might die, this would be one of the most preferable in Castiel’s opinion (and would spare him death-by-Amanda, bound to be less pleasant). He is about to tell Dean as much… but the human does look quite cold and while he doesn’t think his life is actually in danger he does experience some concern about the suppressing effect mild hypothermia might have on his immune system. With great reluctance, Castiel sits back on his heels and retrieves the blankets, not missing how Dean’s eyes follow his movements. And yet, Dean still helpfully retrieves Castiel’s shirts from the coffee table for him, so he grudgingly puts them on before wrapping himself around Dean and tucking the man securely between his body and the back of the couch while pulling the blanket over them.

“You’re wearing only a t-shirt,” Castiel points out at Dean’s bemused look, daring him to acknowledge that his own additional shirts are within reach. Fortunately Dean seems content to forget about them as Castiel adjusts their bodies and blankets to form a warm cocoon (and if he rucks up Dean’s t-shirt a bit in the process, well that’s a tragic and unavoidable accident).

Dean’s head comes to rest against Castiel’s chest and his hands pause in their arranging, a warmth that has nothing to do with the temperature filling him. He slowly threads his fingers through the hunter’s hair, gently stroking, and smiles to himself as Dean shifts against him, tucking a knee between Castiel’s and draping an arm across his waist before burrowing his hand underneath his shirts to rest against Castiel’s back. Dean sighs softly against his chest and Castiel’s urge to kiss him is overcome only by reluctance to dislodge their bodies from fitting together so perfectly. As Dean relaxes into sleep against him, Castiel is torn between doing the same or maintaining consciousness so that he can remember every moment between then and dawn.

“This okay?” Dean mumbles against him. Castiel has to stop himself from laughing -- nothing in all of time and Creation has ever been more okay, nor has any word at any time been so inadequate a descriptor.

“Yes,” he responds quietly, rubbing soothing circles into Dean’s back. “It is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Castiel burning 500 calories trying to claim his fair share of blankets is basically my life. Hope you enjoyed this!
> 
> [TempestBlessed](https://tempestblessed.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


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